We Have Ways Of Making You Jolly
PART OF VISITING family for the Holidays is going to drop in on those relatives you don’t get to see very often. We devoted part of yesterday to that.
I must admit that Rose and Ray are the only people I know who actually live in a “Gated Community.” Well, that is, if you exclude from “Gated Community” those places where the gates are topped with razor wire and all the residents have colorful nicknames. Rose and Ray don’t have colorful nicknames and I didn’t see any razor wire. But there was one disturbing element, not counting the fact that all of the homes inside the gates cost more than some U. S. Navy warships. Let me explain.
The minivan was filled – seven jovial souls off to visit (actually to pay homage) with some of the senior members of the family. I wasn’t driving, and being very tired already, my job was to be cordial and not say anything inappropriate. Why that didn’t work out right I can’t explain.
As we approached their community I took a sip from my 137 oz. Diet Coke. – No sugar but a mini-infusion of caffeine – and looked up as we pulled up to The Gate.
Perhaps I’ve seen too many cheap movies, (No, I have seen too many cheap movies, no perhaps about it) but when the female security person stepped out of the little booth, clipboard in hand, it took me less than a second to overstep my job description.
“Wow, does she look like a guard in a women’s prison, or what?”
That was not the right thing to say at that particular moment.
As we pulled up to be checked in by “Svetlana, Midnight Mistress of Sverdlovsk” the other adults in the van started to laugh. Nephew Dave, the driver, lowered the window and tried to tell the KGB retiree that we were there to visit Rose and Ray, but he was laughing loudly.
“So, tell me why you are all laughing?” Uh-Oh.
Dave turned to look at me but I quickly lowered my head and took a long sip from my 55 gallon drum of Diet Coke. Dave was on his own with this one, I bailed.
“Oh …Well you see – my uncle is a comedian and he was just trying out some new material on us.” Svetlana bent over to take a gander at me. I smiled innocently and said, “It’s all about squirrels, Da.”
Apparently, that either satisfied her or confused her because she waved us through with a terse, “Merry Christmas,” and a quick notation on her clipboard. I suspect that this incident has gone onto my permanent record.